Dr. Davidson looked up at Harper, suspicion filling his eyes. “My patient needs rest, not an interrogation.”
“I’m working a girl’s murder.” Harper didn’t try to soften her tone or sugarcoat the facts. “And Macy OD’d on fentanyl, which means big problems for everyone—especially the ER. I need to trace her supplier.” So far, Cambria City had been spared the stronger synthetic opioids smuggled in from China. Fentanyl wasn’t only deadly to the addicts who inhaled or injected it; it also had the potential to be absorbed through the skin, placing every cop, EMT, paramedic, and first responder at risk.
“I understand,” Davidson replied, the edge gone from his tone. “But Macy won’t be ready to talk to anyone for a few hours at least.”
Harper glanced at Leah, who nodded her agreement. “Thanks. I’ll let you know when the lab definitively IDs the drugs we found on her.”
“And we’ll of course keep you apprised. I assume she’s under arrest, so one of your officers will remain with her?”
“Yes. Don’t worry, since she’s in no condition to respond to her Miranda rights, no one will question her until she’s medically clear.”
“Sounds like an appropriate arrangement.”
Harper swallowed a sigh of frustration and turned to leave, but Leah called her back. “Good luck, Harper.”
Harper gave her a wave and walked past Darius’ room on her way out. “Only thing he tested positive for was pot,” Miller told her. “We’re waiting for the discharge paperwork then we’ll get him to the station, book him.”
“Great. I have some evidence that needs to be logged in as well. Got a voucher?”
He took an evidence label from the rear of his notebook. They moved to the corner of the room where there was an empty stainless-steel table. Harper donned a pair of gloves and opened the plastic bag while Miller videoed her using his phone. They both recoiled at the noxious fumes from Macy’s clothing, but Harper saw that the nurses had thoughtfully packaged her purse in its own bag. She slid that bag out, sealed the clothing bag shut, then opened the one with the purse.
The nurses had enclosed their own inventory and Harper verified it as Miller sealed each item in a separate bag: one small plastic baggie containing ten white pills consistent with OxyContin; two hand-rolled cigarettes, probably marijuana; an assortment of change in various denominations wadded up in a five-dollar bill; a syringe, tourniquet, lighter, cotton wad, spoon; a plastic bag containing unknown white powder—the fentanyl, Harper suspected, taking care not to disturb it; a cheap flip phone; a smartphone inside a glittery case; and a variety of condoms.
“Vice and Drugs are going to want to talk to her if this does turn out to be fentanyl,” Miller said as he gingerly resealed the bag of powder. He hefted the bag in his palm. “Got to be almost dealer weight. Worth a pretty penny on the street if it’s pure.”
“If it was pure, she’d be dead.” She couldn’t see any dealer trusting Macy to hold such weight—and how could Macy have bought it herself? Even diluted, that much fentanyl would have cost a few thousand. Had she stolen it from someone?
She turned her attention to the two phones. The flip phone was charged and didn’t require any security. She was tempted to “accidentally” access the recent texts and contacts, but anything she found could be ruled inadmissible if she needed the evidence for court, so she held off. For now. They’d be able to get a warrant easily; she just needed to be patient.
She examined the more expensive smartphone. How had Macy afforded this? A gift from Darius? Maybe the untraceable burner phone was for business and the smartphone for personal use? Whatever the answers, they’d need to wait since the smartphone was dead.
Harper turned to where Darius was snoring, sleeping the peaceful sleep of the guilty.
The overhead light glinted on a thin gold chain he wore around his neck. It was much too delicate for a man to have chosen for himself. She stepped toward him for a closer look. From the chain dangled a single calla lily.
“Call me after he’s processed,” she told Miller, excitement sparking through her. “I want photos of everything—including that necklace.”
“No problem. Think he’s got something to do with the drugs we found on the girl?”
“I think he has something to do with murder.”
Twenty-Eight
Leah was finishing charting her involvement with Macy’s resuscitation when her phone rang: Luka. “Meet me at the morgue?”
“Paperwork versus bodies? No contest.”
“I’m serious. That widow I asked you to help interview? Tassi Standish? She’s at the morgue along with an ex-fed who was investigating her husband. Anyway, it’s too complicated to get into, but I need to separate them, get them out of the morgue before Ford Tierney refuses to do another case for us—”
“Ford does not enjoy complications, especially not ones coming from family members,” Leah told him.
“I know. So can you help? I thought we could interview them at the CIC.”
“Sure, no problem. Any word on Beth?”
“No.” He paused as if considering. “But we can stop by security after the interviews, review their footage ourselves if you want.”
She appreciated the time he was spending on a case that officially was no case at all. “Thanks.”
The morgue was in Good Sam’s basement. Leah took the stairs, and couldn’t help but be reminded of the times after Ian’s death when she’d taken solace in being surrounded by the stairwell’s simple cinderblock, overwhelmed by her pain and sorrow. The seldom-used stairway had made for a good place to hide and regroup, compose herself to face the world once more. Thankfully, it had been a while since she’d needed to take advantage of its quiet comfort.
She passed the security desk in the lobby of the coroner’s office, the guard jerking his chin to the visitors’ waiting room. Luka leaned against the open door of the waiting room, balanced on his crutches, watching the people inside. He nodded to her as she joined him. The room
